


the five stages of grief

by TheJediAreGay



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (nothing sexual in this we do not age Damian up to put him in sexual situations bc he’s still baby), Angst, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian is 16 years old, Gay Damian Wayne, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28832106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJediAreGay/pseuds/TheJediAreGay
Summary: "Tomorrow, the world will keep turning and everyone will go about their lives as if nothing ever happened. Everyone except Damian."Or, Damian's boyfriend dies and his family helps him as he struggles to come to terms with it
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Duke Thomas & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, past Damian Wayne/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	the five stages of grief

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I start WAY too many stories then have to battle with myself over which one to update, but I've had this idea for so long and I just needed to write it.

_There was a new boy volunteering at the Gotham Humane Society today. At least, Damian assumed he was new. He would have remembered seeing that mop of curly brown hair and those deep brown eyes at some point in the three months he’d been coming in after school. He’d only caught a quick glance at him across the room, helping groom a labradoodle, before he had to rush off to the other side of the building to feed the cats._

_It wasn’t until 7pm that he said goodbye to his favorite tabby, Sandwich, and trudged to the reception desk to grab his backpack. A text from Pennyworth flashed on his phone, telling him the car was waiting for him out front. He could tell by the old man’s clipped sentences that he was annoyed he’d missed dinner for the third night in a row. It was going to be a tense car ride home._

_As he walked towards the exit, the curly haired boy appeared at his side with a quickness that could rival Grayson. Damian stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at the other boy with narrowed eyes._

_“You must be Damian,” the boy assumed, undeterred by Damian’s glare._

_Damian raised an eyebrow._

_“How do you know my name?”_

_The boy gave him a smile, and Damian pretended not to notice how big and bright it was._

_“Louise told me there was a boy around my age named Damian who volunteers here too,” he revealed. “You’re the only boy around my age I’ve seen all day. So therefore, you must be Damian.”_

_Ah, Louise. The loudmouthed receptionist. She was a kind enough woman, but she had her nose in everybody’s business. Damian made it a point not to speak to her beyond the occasional “good afternoon” when he walked in and the even rarer “have a good night” before one of them left._

_“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Damian scoffed._

_The strange boy must have found that amusing, because he let out a breathy laugh and kept going._

_“I like to think so,” he joked. “How old are you anyways?”_

_“Sixteen,” Damian answered. “How old are_ you _?”_

_He wondered why he was even entertaining this conversation. He had Pennyworth waiting outside and a meal growing cold at home. And even if he didn’t, this boy was an annoyance. Damian wasn’t volunteering here to make friends. He already had enough of those, in his opinion._

_“Sixteen,” the boy replied. “Do you go to Gotham High School? I haven’t seen you around.”_

_“No, actually. I attend Gotham Academy.”_

_The boy’s lips turned up into a smirk._

_“Ah. Rich kid.”_

_Damian glared at him. It was an accusation he couldn’t deny, and that was what annoyed him the most._

_“If you’re speaking to me with the sole intention of insulting me, then you can –,”_

_The boy cut him off with a laugh._

_“I’m just joking, I swear,” he insisted.” I just came here to introduce myself.”_

_He held out an olive toned hand._

_“Ezra Bennett.”_

_Damian stared at the hand, weighing the pros and cons of taking it. He didn’t want to encourage this boy’s attempts at a friendship or whatever it was that he was trying to offer him. But if the boy was going to continue volunteering there, he supposed he could be civil at least._

_He reached out and gripped the other boy’s hand in a firm handshake._

_“Damian Wayne,” he introduced himself, quickly dropping his hand. “Though I suppose you already knew that.”_

_The boy regarded him with those kind brown eyes for a second or two before replying,_

_“It’s nice to meet you, Damian Wayne.”_

* * *

The live feed from Batman’s mask has gone down. The comms are silent. There’s nothing for Damian to do besides sit in his father’s chair, still clothed in his soot covered Robin suit. His finger idly taps the power button on his phone every few seconds, as if a new message will have miraculously appeared in that time. It’s already midnight. His last text to Ezra sits unread, the glaring “sent at 9:17pm” scrawled under it. It’s quick, to the point, typed out in a moment of blind panic.

_‘Are you okay?’_

If he _were_ okay, it wouldn’t be taking him this long to respond. Ezra is a prompt texter. He responds within minutes, no matter where he is or what he’s doing. He could be in the middle of surgery and he would wake up in the middle of it to respond to Damian’s text. He’s always been quick to respond, ever since they first exchanged numbers. Damian is always the one who holds back, who feels compelled to wait a minimum of 15 minutes before responding, lest he seem too eager.

If he had just texted him earlier, if he had just cancelled that date...

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Damian is sick of having to cancel dates. He can’t stand to see his boyfriend’s lips downturned into a frown and the familiar disappointment flooding his big brown eyes when he turns him down because of “family emergencies”. He hates reading the “it’s okay” and the “maybe next weekend” texts knowing that the Scarecrow will probably be wreaking havoc on Gotham on their next scheduled date and he’ll likely have to cancel again.

Tonight seemed peaceful at first. No Arkham breakouts, no major disasters, no crime lords on a killing spree. He and Father spent most of the night sitting on the ledge of a building, looking out at the cityscape and filling the silence with idle conversation. Damian remembers thinking to himself, _finally._ Finally, he could end the night early enough to make it to the library for their study date.

Then they heard a distant _bang_ , and smoke started to fill the night sky.

They rushed over while Father contacted the others on his comm, instructing them to be on standby. Selfishly, all Damian could feel was annoyance. He’d been _so close_ to being able to retire early tonight. He would have had just enough time to rush home, change his clothes, and rush back to the library. He would have walked in to find Ezra in his normal spot, nestled in a beanbag chair behind the science fiction shelf. Maybe he’d be rereading _Ender’s Game_ for the millionth time. Then Damian would offer up an apology and force another bitter lie past his lips about his father’s strict rules or batcow coming down with an illness or something else that Ezra wouldn’t believe but would accept anyways. And then his boyfriend would give him a big, 100 watt smile and pat the beanbag next to him as an invitation to sit down.

All his imaginings were cut short when they reached the place where the Gotham City Public Library stood. Whether or not it was still standing was debatable.

The scene was chaos. People were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, covered with blood and debris. Firefighters had made it to the scene before Batman and Robin, but they looked utterly overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the disaster in front of them. There was too much destruction, too many people to help. The entire left wing of the building had collapsed in on itself. It was hardly more than a pile of smoking bricks.

_The science fiction section was on the left wing of the library._

Whatever happened next was a blur. He thinks he rushed towards the building, because he can remember a strong pair of arms wrapped around him, as if to hold him back. The period of time between then and getting back to a cave is a blank spot in his brain, as if someone double clicked the memory and hit delete. He knows that he ended up sitting in his father’s chair, hugging his knees to his chest. He knows Pennyworth tried gently guiding him to the lockers to change, but Damian batted his hand away. He _had_ to sit there and wait for Father to come back. His father would have answers. He would know where Ezra was.

That was three hours ago, and he still hasn’t come back.

He curses himself for allowing his father – at least, he assumes it was his father – to take him home. He should be there. He should have been the first person his boyfriend saw when he was pulled out of the rubble. He should have been holding his hand in the ambulance and pacing around the hospital waiting room anticipating news on his condition, not sitting in the cave and staring at his phone.

The sound of the batmobile roaring into the cave has him standing up in an instant

“Father!” he shouts, nearly tripping over his own feet as he runs up to him.

His father climbs out the driver’s seat, covered in dust and other peoples’ blood. He reaches up and pulls off his cowl, revealing a somber expression. His eyes are sad in the way they only are after a major tragedy, be it the death of a child or a mass murder or an explosion like this one. The loss of innocent lives is never something he takes lightly.

“Father, where is he?” Damian asks. “Where’s Ezra?”

His father looks at him with those sad eyes, shaking his head softly.

“Damian...”

 _Why is he stalling?_ Damian wonders. _Does he not want me to know what condition Ezra is in? Does he want to spare me the pain of knowing Ezra is in pain?_

“He’s been hospitalized, right?” he asks.

Damian pauses then shakes his head at the stupidity of his own question, murmuring to himself, “Of course he’s been hospitalized, his injuries must be severe...”

His breath catches at the thought of just _how_ severe they may be. His legs could have been crushed, his lungs could have collapsed, he could have been impaled on the jagged wood of a fallen bookshelf. Maybe he has a traumatic brain injury that would make it hard for him to even recognize Damian, and his father doesn’t know how to break it to him.

“Which hospital did they take him to?” he asks, more insistent this time.

Once again, his father provides him no answers. His eyes just become more haunted with sorrow. _That_ is not a look Damian is used to. His father is able to compartmentalize tragedy with the ease of someone who has seen much of it in his life. He’s been on the scene of worse disasters than this one. That look in his eyes... he only gets it when something is _personal_.

“Damian, I’m...”

Damian shakes his head, unwilling to listen. They’re only wasting time. Ezra is probably alone right now, scared and in pain and waiting for Damian to show up. Just like he was waiting for Damian to show up to their date. He won’t disappoint his boyfriend _again_.

“No matter, you can just take me there,” he dismisses, taking a step towards the batmobile.

His father gently grabs him by the shoulder, stopping him.

“I can’t,” he insists.

Damian narrows his eyes. His father is being cagey, and he can’t figure out _why_.

“Is it because I’m in uniform?” he huffs. “I have a change of clothes in my locker. I’ll just –,”

“No, Damian,” Father cuts him off. “I can’t take you to him because he’s not in a hospital.”

Damian stares at him, searching for an answer in his eyes. If Ezra isn’t in the hospital, then the only other place he could be is...

_Is he still buried in the rubble? Cold, afraid, alone? Did the emergency responders give up for the night?_

“Where is he?” he whispers.

His father sighs deeply, his free hand reaching up to cup Damian’s cheek. It’s his go-to comfort tactic. He’s used it on Damian after nightmares that had him sitting straight up in bed and screaming in terror, after intense missions where an innocent life slipped right through Damian’s fingers, when he explained to Damian that Dick...

When he explained that Dick had _died_.

Damian digs his nails into his palms hard enough to slice them open.

“I’m sorry, son...”

“No,” Damian whispers.

Father brushes his thumb over his cheek.

“He’s –,”

“NO!” Damian shouts, jumping out of his father’s grasp.

His hands fly up to bury themselves in his hair, pulling until he can feel his scalp burn. He doesn’t want to hear it.

He doesn’t want to hear it.

He doesn’t want to hear it.

He doesn’t want to _hear it_.

“He’s gone,” Father says.

Damian’s heart stops in his chest.

 _It can’t be true,_ he tells himself, trying to make his heart beat again. He would have known. Somehow, he would have known if Ezra had... if he had...

He would have felt it. Time would have stood still, his world would have stopped turning. It wouldn’t have just been an insignificant moment in time, something he missed while checking the notifications on his phone.

“No,” he repeats. “No no no no _no_. He... he can’t be...”

Father has to be wrong. He was wrong when he thought Drake was dead. He was wrong when he thought Todd _stayed_ dead. He must be wrong about this as well. Just because he’s the “World’s Greatest Detective” doesn’t mean he can’t make honest mistakes.

“Th-There hasn’t been positive identification yet, has there?” he asks, grasping onto his waning hope. “No, there couldn’t be. His mother works nights on the opposite side of the city. She wouldn’t be there to identify the...”

He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence.

Father reaches out and places both hands on his shoulders, holding him in a firm but gentle grip. Blue eyes meet green and his gaze pins Damian into place.

“Damian, I saw him myself.”

Damian’s had enough of the story his father is spinning. It’s lies, it’s all lies! Why is his father lying to him? Is it because he doesn’t like Ezra? No, that can’t be the case. Father invites him over to dinner on Sunday nights and pretends not to notice when Damian comes home long after the Humane Society has already closed. He was just as charmed by Ezra as everyone else who meets him. So if Father isn’t lying, then he must be confused. Maybe he inhaled too many fumes while helping with the search for survivors.

“Then you didn’t see what you think you saw!” he shouts, trying to wrestle his way out of his father’s grip. But Father just pulls him in closer, hugging him firmly to his chest. The smell of Kevlar and iron nearly makes him gag.

“ _No!_ ” he screams. “Let go of me!”

He bangs his fists wildly against his father’s chest, trying to escape so he can go back to the scene and find Ezra. If his father and the firefighters aren’t willing to search for him, he’ll do it himself. He’ll dig him out of the rubble brick by brick until his hands are raw and bloody. Because he’s _not dead_.

“I want to see Ezra!” he demands. “I want to see him!”

His father holds him tighter, rubbing his back in soothing circles like one would do to their crying baby. Damian is alarmed to feel his eyes sting with hot tears that start pouring down his cheeks. He can’t understand why he’s crying. Ezra isn’t gone. He _isn’t_. He can’t be.

He can’t be dead, because Damian can’t bear to imagine a world without him in it.

“Please, Father, please just let me see him,” he whimpers.

His father buries his face in his hair, whispering soft assurances like “I’m sorry” and “I’m here”. He doesn’t say “it’ll be alright”, but they both know it won’t be. When Damian wakes up tomorrow, there will be no good morning text on his phone. When he volunteers at the Humane Society, he won’t spot that head of curly hair hanging around in the dog section. The world will keep turning without Ezra in it and everyone will go on with their lives as if nothing ever happened.

Everyone except for Damian.

“Shhh, I’m here,” Father whispers, rocking him back and forth. “I’ve got you.”

A horrible, deafening wailing sound rings in Damian’s ears. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s coming from him. He’s clinging to his father, sobbing like a pathetic little child. There’s a very real, very persistent ache deep in his chest. He thinks it’s his heart breaking.

He didn’t feel Ezra’s death when it happened, but he can feel it now. And it hurts worse than any gunshot or stab wound or sword through the chest ever could.

* * *

_The same boy – Ezra Bennett, Damian reminded himself – came back every day that week. And every day, he proved to be a nuisance. No matter how many withering glances Damian shot his way, no matter how many biting comments, the boy kept going out of his way to talk to him. It became something Damian just expected as much as he expected to see Pennyworth making English Breakfast Tea in the mornings._

_He had to admit, he didn’t find Bennett to be_ exceptionally _annoying. He might even go as far as to say he could be... entertaining. Like Damian, he was an artist, but his field of interest was pottery. He’d shown Damian some photos of his work, and it was impressive. He could be funny at times as well. Damian had to force himself to hold in a laugh on more than one occasion._

_Damian grabbed his backpack at the end of the day, and like clockwork, Bennett walked up to him._

_“It’s only 5:30,” the other boy observed. “Kinda early for you to be leaving, Dames.”_

That _was something about the boy that annoyed him; his insistence on that stupid nickname. Damian tried to correct him in the past, but he’d eventually given up._

_“I have a prior engagement,” he grumbled._

_Bennett raised an eyebrow._

_“What kind of prior engagement are we talking here?” he asked. “A date?”_

_Damian felt his cheeks warm automatically and tried to hide it with a scoff. Something about the word “date” coming out of Bennett’s mouth made him uncomfortable._

_“No,” he insisted. “I have a pressing family matter.”_

_Bennett seemed to relax slightly after hearing Damian didn’t have a date with someone, but Damian told himself he had to be imagining it. Why would Bennett care how he spent his free time?_

_“In that case, I don’t want to keep you here too long. I. just wanted to give you this.”_

_He held out a slip of paper. Damian took it hesitantly and opened it up. There was a phone number scrawled on it in messy writing. Damian didn’t even think it was possible for someone to write_ numbers _messily._

_“What’s this?” he asked._

_Bennett chuckled._

_“My number, of course,” he answered. “What else would it be?”_

_Damian stared down at the paper, then looked back up at Bennett, then down at the paper again. No one had ever given him their phone number before. Of course, he had Jon’s phone number, and Maya’s, and Maps’. But this felt different somehow._

_“And why would I need this?” he asked, dumbfounded._

_Bennett shrugged, a playful grin on his face._

_“I like talking to you,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “And I think you like talking to me too.”_

_Damian scoffed._

_“You’re just imagining things, Bennett.”_

_As usual, his words didn’t have the desired response. Bennett laughed as if he had just told a joke._

_“Whatever you say, Dames,” he dismissed. “You go handle your “pressing family matter”. I’ll text you later.”_

_Damian gave him one last scowl and stormed off to meet Pennyworth out front._

_Ezra kept his promise._

**Author's Note:**

> I know Damian was expelled from Gotham Academy but I choose to act like he was invited back. Also I just ignore Alfred's death. Didn't happen!


End file.
